Her heart had fed upon the
sustenance of her brain until the abnormal enlargement of that single
organ had prepared her for inevitable suffering at the hands of men--if
not from actual unkindness, yet from an amiable neglect which could
cut even more deeply. She turned in the direction of sentiment as
instinctively as a plant turns toward light, and the Reverend Orlando
Mullen had had predecessors in her affections who had been hardly so
much as aware of her existence.
As Abel went out of the door, her accusing eyes followed him while she
thought, with sentimental regret, of the many things she had given up
when she married--of Mrs. Mullen's ironing day, of the rector's darning,
of the red flannel petticoats she had no longer time to make for the
Hottentots. It was over one of these flannel petticoats that Mr. Mullen
had first turned to her with his earnest and sympathetic look, as though
he were probing her soul. At the moment she had felt that his casual
words held a hidden meaning, and to this day, though she had pondered
them in sleepless nights ever since, she was still undecided.
"I don't believe he knew how much I cared," she said, as she started
mechanically to take out her hairpins.
Pages:
433
434
435
436
437
438
439
440
441
442
443
444
445
446
447
448
449
450
451
452
453
454
455
456
457